


Golden Stars and Silver Scars

by Jay_the_bird



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Angst, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hair Braiding, M/M, Stabbing, am I really writing RA fanfic in the year of our lord 2020?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_the_bird/pseuds/Jay_the_bird
Summary: A series of Cralt stories, some of longer length than others
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	1. Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> look, last time I wrote about these characters, I was 12-3 years old.
> 
> -Jay

Castle Araluan looks beautiful in the sunset. The light reflects off the spires and windows, painting it gold, and inside, the sunset streams through the tall windows, casting long, elegant shadows across every tastefully decorated room and carefully styled hallway.

On principle, Halt doesn’t like castles, and Araluan is no exception. He complains about the lack of functionality, about the luxury. He complains, in fact, about everything he can, to anyone he can. Most people at the castle who know him find this amusing. Gilan finds his comments stressful, hyper aware of the blunt criticism being levelled at the King’s home, which is one of the reasons Halt does it. After all, he has always considered keeping his apprentice on his toes to be vitally important to training him.

However much he complains, he is also the most frequent visitor to the castle out of the ranger corps. Every few months, Halt finds some reason to drag his apprentice across the Fief borders to Castle Araluan. This, of course, has nothing to do with the fact that a certain red-haired commandant resides there. It’s just that, as one of the more senior members of the corps, he has a lot of business that requires him to visit Castle Araluan. And the fact that he inevitably finds himself sleeping over for a night or five with his partner is of no consequence whatsoever. That would be highly unprofessional, and while professionalism has never been Halt’s primary goal in life, he does appreciate the importance of appearances.

“How can you sleep on this?” Halt grumbles, sinking into the mattress.

“What’s wrong with my bed?” Stood over by the window, Crowley is taking advantage of the dying light to plait his hair, which is more vibrant and warmer in colour than ever in the golden orange of the sunset. He looks over at Halt, a smile playing about his lips as he regards him, watching the way he pushes his dark hair back and sighs, a look of utter contempt being directed at the intricately carved dresser.

“It’s too soft.” He mumbles. A sound that is definitely not a laugh escapes Crowley. Glaring at the opulent ceiling as if it has personally offended him, Halt ignores it. For half a moment, he longs fervently for the cabin in the woods of Redmount Fief, for his own bed, however hard and unforgiving the mattress might be. With a glance at Crowley, the feeling fades, replaced by a warm familiarity.

“You can always sleep in the guest room.” He says, which Halt thinks is very unfair of him, precisely because they both know he’ll fold instantly at that particular threat.

“I’ll get used to it.” Again, Crowley absolutely does not laugh. Propping himself up on one elbow, Halt looks at him, silhouetted against the window. Not for the first time, he wonders how he managed to get such a wonderful man. “Come over here, I’ll do that.” He pats the space on the bed next to him in a way that brokers no argument. Crowley grins as he walks over, which makes Halt slightly suspicious that he might have planned this all along.

Nevertheless, he settles quickly into the rhythm of plaiting, fingers working deftly as Crowley closes his eyes and hums some irritating tune. However frustrating it might be, Halt wouldn’t dream of interrupting him. It’s almost calming, not that he’d ever dream of admitting that out loud.

“You need a haircut.” Says Crowley suddenly, cutting off his humming. Halt raises one eyebrow slowly, fingers pausing in their work.

“That’s rich from you.” He mutters.

“You like it.” Crowley replies smugly. Unfortunately, Halt has to agree, fingers threading through Crowley’s hair as he tries to mentally describe the bright colour.

“Yes, I do.”

“Besides, where would you put your flowers?” Slightly smugger now, Crowley continues. It’s all Halt can do to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Not just any flowers.” Muttering under his breath, Halt reaches for a hair tie.

“Of course not. Just the daisies.” Crowley hears him, because his hearing has been sharpened by years of being Commandant. It only takes a moment to secure the end of the plait and then Halt sits back, admiring his handiwork.

“There. Done.” He says shortly, and Halt closes his eyes, lying back down into the soft sheets. The sheets rustle as Crowley follows suit. There is silence in the room for a moment, and then Halt tenses automatically as he feels Crowley’s head rest against his chest. He forces himself to relax, to remember that he is here, with Crowley, not in Dun Kilty. Here, there is no knife about to be thrown at his back, no poison in his drink. His hand rests on Crowley’s shoulder, head tilting sideways to rest against Crowley’s as he settles into the peaceful atmosphere of the evening, letting the worries and cares of the day melt away.

“Eventually, some bright young ranger is going to figure out why we keep disappearing off to my Hide together at gatherings.” Crowley pushes Halt’s hair back out of his face gently.

“Yes, and Gilan will put two and two together and realise that I don’t spend the night in the guest rooms at Castle Araluan.” There’s a slightly awkward silence while they both wait for Crowley to ask his question.

“Do you mind people knowing?” He asks eventually, quiet in the silence of the room. Shuffling somehow closer to him, Halt tries to figure out what to say in response.

“I don’t think it’s any of their business, but no. I don’t mind if they do.”

“Good.” Again, Crowley grins audibly, evidently reassured. “You should be proud to have me on your arm.” Jokes Crowley, sounding pleased with himself. Halt seriously considers pushing him off the bed for a moment.

“I’m sure I am.” He replies in a dry tone. Crowley laughs, bright and loud, and Halt wonders if it’s possible to fall any deeper in love than this. Perhaps he won’t push him off the bed after all, he thinks, and then, peacefully, slowly, he falls asleep.


	2. The knife part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops I wrote angst
> 
> again
> 
> -Jay

It’s a stupid mission. Some petty thief had been accused of taking a necklace and had gone on the run. The only reason Crowley was even with Halt was that he’d been visiting Redmount on official business that hadn’t actually needed his presence and had taken the opportunity to spend more time with him. And the only reason Crowley hadn’t been the one interrogating the suspect was because Halt had gotten impatient with his methodical questioning and stepped in.

Sometimes, things go wrong. Crowley knows that more than most. As commandant, he has the thankless task of dealing with the aftermath of things going wrong. When a Ranger goes down in the field, Crowley is the one who organises the funeral, who visits their Fief to alert their friends and family. He has seen things go from bad to worse so many times. _Really_ , he thinks, _I should expect it by now._

-

The knife is long and wicked looking, glinting for one awful moment in the sunlight. A quiet professional voice that resides in the back of Crowley’s head admires the craftmanship, the blue tint to the steel. The moment seems to stretch out, time becoming liquid and changing its course around them as the two Rangers accept the inevitability of the next few seconds. As fast as Halt’s reflexes are, even he can’t move block the blade before it strikes. He tenses as the knife hits, sliding between his ribs. A soft pained gasp escapes him, and the thief, staring horrified at his own hand on the knife, steps back. By now, Halt has his Saxe knife in hand and swings the heavy pommel into the thief’s temple. He crumples on impact, collapsing as consciousness leaves him.

Crowley’s limbs feel heavy, fear grasping at him and holding him back. He tears himself free of its grip, reaching for Halt and feeling him sag gratefully into his arms.

 _My fault, my fault._ He thinks, adjusting his hold on Halt so that he can better see the knife. Only the handle is visible, an elegant looking one with a carved pommel and soft leather grip. Crowley feels faintly sick at the thought of that long blade.

“I need to take it out so I can move you.” Grimacing, Halt looks down. More than anything else, he looks frustrated, as though getting stabbed has disrupted his plans.

“Go on then.” Again, he braces himself, looking frustrated as Crowley hesitates. “I can take it.” Despite his gruff confidence, Halt still makes a pained noise that echoes between Crowley’s ears as he pulls out the long blade. “Bastard thief.” He grunts half-heartedly.

“I’ll get him for attempted murder.” Crowley glares at the unconscious body. His words catch up with him, and he goes pale with worry. “You’re going to be fine.” He says firmly, more for his own benefit than Halt’s, who looks amused by the situation.

“Hm.” Laying his head back on Crowley’s shoulder, Halt’s eyelids almost flutter shut. Worry sparks in Crowley’s heart again. It occurs to him that the amusement and frustration Halt is projecting is, in all likelihood, a front. He clutches him a little closer, fear clouding his ability to think, to come up with a plan. “What’s that look for?” Halt asks, frowning up at Crowley. “I thought you said I would be fine.” There’s a hint of humour in his voice, enough to reassure Crowley a little.

“I won’t let you not be.” He kisses him on the forehead gently, hating the tremor in his voice. “We have to move.” Halt grunts in agreement, angling his feet underneath his body to try and take his own body weight again. Crowley supports him, fear curdling in the pit of his stomach as Halt slumps against him again, breathing heavily. “Come on. Just to the castle. It’s not that far.” They make it over the bridge, for which Crowley is supremely grateful, and are almost at the gate to Castle Redmount before Halt’s legs give out again. Crowley tucks his arm tighter around Halt, keeping him upright by force of will. The guard calls out something about King’s Rangers, but Crowley ignores him, pushing past into the courtyard of Redmount Castle. Once there, he hesitates, not entirely sure where to go. There are people bustling to and fro, groups of students rushing from one lesson to the next, and officials weaving between them with tall piles of paper. As used to the chaos of Castle Araluan as he is, Crowley feels almost intimidated. He certainly feels lost.

“Ranger Crowley!” The booming voice of Baron Arald echoes around the enclosed space. For half a second, everyone stops. Crowley feels more grateful to see the large man making his way towards him that he has been about anything else before.

“Arald. We need a physician.” He says shortly. The tall man’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly.

“Is that Halt?” Popping his head out from behind the Baron, Scribemaster Nigel has a note of genuine fear in his voice. Crowley glares at him.

“Fetch my physician!” Arald booms, to no one in particular, and then, in a volume that is only slightly lowered, addresses Crowley. “We’ll go to Nigel’s office. It’s closer.” Assessing the distance across the courtyard, Crowley bends down and picks Halt up to muffled protests, carrying him close in his arms as he follows the Baron and Scribemaster to Nigel’s office.

It’s a surprisingly large space, with a big window overlooking a bigger desk. Arald clears the desk with one sweep of his arm, and gestures for Halt to be laid there. When Crowley puts him down, Halt is still complaining, letting out a constant stream of muttered frustration that is oddly reassuring. Crowley leans over him to hear it, his hair falling forward so that it obscures their faces.

“Should’ve taken me to the cabin.” He grumbles.

“You need a physician.” Waving a hand dismissively, Halt groans with pain. That same sick fear curdles in the pit of Crowley’s stomach.

“Train Gilan.” Halt’s voice is weakening by the second. Shaking his head, Crowley cups his hand against Halt’s cheek. _My fault._ He thinks again.

“I won’t need to. You’re going to be fine.” The traitorous tremor in his voice emerges again. “Up and about in no time.” Halt doesn’t reply, and for one horrible second, Crowley thinks he might have passed on quietly, but then he takes a deep, shuddering breath and the moment passes. He leans down and kisses Halt’s forehead again. “I love you.” Crowley says quietly, because he would never forgive himself if he didn’t.

The door swings open as he does, and a lanky figure falls into a wall, righting himself quickly and coming to a stop in the middle of the room. He’s carrying a sword, which he lets fall with a clatter.

“They said there was a dead Ranger.” Gilan says, panic evident in his voice. Groaning, Halt tries to sit up, only to be gently stopped by Crowley.

“Don’t write me off that quickly.” He grumbles, and Gilan’s face loses its concern. He picks up his sword, nodding respectfully to the Baron, and takes his place by Crowley, who straightens up, taking a subtle step back while he avoids everyone’s eyes.

The next person to burst through the door is the physician. He’s a tall man, with white hair and long, knobbly limbs. Arald beams at him.

“Right, where’s my patient?” He asks, entirely unnecessarily, and marches over to Halt, thrusting what looks like a glass of water under his nose. “Drink up. Painkillers.” Halt narrows his eyes, looking from the physician to the others in the room to the intimidating set of tools that are being laid out next to him. For once, he decides not to argue. Frowning, he tries to sit up again.

“What was in that-”


	3. The knife pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the support on the last couple of chapters! I'm loving getting back into this fandom. Once again, comments of any kind are much appreciated, but thank you for just clicking x
> 
> \- Jay

Halt wakes with a start in his own bed. The first thing he notices is the pain. It feels as though he’s been hit with a club. There’s a sharp, vivid pain when he moves, which fades away as quickly as if appears, leaving only the ever present, dull, aching throb. The memory of the knife sliding into his body resurfaces helpfully. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, _I’d better not sit up just yet_. From his position lying down, he can see most of the room, which is mostly as he left it. The flowers have wilted a little on the windowsill, and there’s a thin layer of dust on every surface, but those are things Halt can deal with when he gets up. Something a little more difficult to deal with is the corps commandant dozing off in his rocking chair.

“You look like shit.” Halt says bluntly. Nearly falling out of the chair, Crowley jerks awake. A fond, relieved expression settles on his face as he sees Halt awake and smirking at him. “How long was I out?”

“Nearly two days.” There’s a slight wavering in Crowley’s voice that makes Halt frown. He tries to remember how bad it got, but there are frustrating patches where his memory is cloudy and confused.

“What was in that water?” He groans, as the world seems to decide to spin around him. The ghost of a smile touches Crowley’s lips.

“Something to get you to sleep, the physician said.” Smile lingering, Crowley nonetheless looks sympathetic to Halt’s plight. “He said you’d probably want to be up and about straight away, and that this would at least give you some time to start to heal first. _Gilan._ Halt thinks, searching through his memory. _Gilan was there._ Try as he might, he can’t remember where his apprentice had been, or what had happened to him.

“Where’s Gilan?” Trying to sit up and failing spectacularly, he looks around the room for his apprentice, worry creasing his brow when he can’t find him.

“Outside. I set him practicing with the throwing knife.” Crowley gently pushes him back down. “Rest.” Unfortunately, Halt has never been good at following orders, and he sits up immediately. This is a mistake, and they both know it within seconds as Halt gasps with pain. The sharp pain doesn’t fade away this time, slicing deep into him. Altogether too stubborn for his own good, Halt tries not to let on. Crowley glares at him.

“Help me out to the veranda?” Halt asks. After a few seconds, Crowley folds.

“Fine.” He sits down on the edge of Halt’s bed, reaching out to put his arm around him. By the time Halt is next to him, legs over the side, he is already regretting agreeing to move him. His partner’s face is lined with pain, and however much Halt tries to hide it, Crowley can tell that he’s struggling. “This isn’t a good idea.” Grunting, Halt doesn’t disagree. He also doesn’t stop. They just about reach the bedroom door before Halt’s legs give up. Crowley holds him upright, taking a moment to gather himself before he picks Halt up and crosses the room in one long stride. He lays him on the bed again, glaring at Halt – more out of fear than any kind of real anger. He almost can’t bear it, seeing him in this much pain. “Stay there. No more moving. That’s an order from your commandant” Halt grins and salutes lazily. The gesture causes him pain, Crowley can tell, and fear claws at his insides again.

“Yes sir.” He says, smirking irreverently. Despite himself, Crowley smiles back. He can’t help but feel happy, despite Halt’s grouching and sarcasm – or perhaps because of it. The cabin had been far too quiet with Halt unconscious.

“I missed you.” The tenderness in his own voice surprises him. For once, Halt doesn’t reply with a mocking taunt, for which Crowley is very much grateful. He lies down next to him, grunting. “How do you sleep on this thing?” Laughing, Halt looks at the ceiling.

“You’ve gone soft. Too much sitting around in that fancy castle, not enough crawling around in wet fields.” Now it’s Crowley’s turn to laugh, shuffling a little closer to Halt. “You could always go back to the cloud you call a bed.” He adds, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“I’ll get used to it.” Crowley replies quickly, thinking it very unfair of Halt to use his own methods against him.

“Hm.” His eyebrow raise is almost audible, but Halt doesn’t feel the need to comment again. Evidently, he thinks he’s won this particular argument. _Which,_ Crowley ponders ruefully, _he rather has._

When the last of the light fades, Gilan reasons that he’s probably not expected to continue practicing. Even Crowley wouldn’t expect him to keep throwing his knife at the targets all night. Having reached this conclusion, the apprentice hauls the targets into a line under the overhang of the cabin’s roof and takes himself inside. The cabin is silent. No lights are on, and there’s no food waiting on the table. Gilan is at first concerned, and then reminds himself that Crowley is the _Commandant_ and he can’t very well expect him to cook for a lowly apprentice. Still, he wonders where Crowley’s gone. Sneaking over to Halt’s door, which has been left ajar, he pauses, wondering if being caught sticking his head into a senior Ranger’s room is grounds for disqualification as a ranger. _Probably not._

They are asleep. In the darkened room, all he can see at first is two bodies on the bed, both breathing deeply and evenly, and then, as his eyes adjust, more detains become clear. Crowley has one arm around Halt, and both look more peaceful than Gilan remembers ever seeing them before. Slowly, making next to no noise, he closes the door and backs away, heading as quietly as possible for his own room. After all, seeing two senior Rangers sleeping might not get him kicked out of the Corps, but waking them up definitely will.


End file.
